


holly jolly miller

by kirargent



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Coffee Shops, Friends to Lovers, Holidays, M/M, Mistletoe, Pining, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-26
Updated: 2016-09-26
Packaged: 2018-08-17 09:15:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8138714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirargent/pseuds/kirargent
Summary: But this is the first time he’s seen Monty in a cozy-ass sweater since he’s realized he’s, like, head-over-McFucking heels for the guy. Cause of death: the love of my life in a fuzzy winter sweater.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [softestpink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/softestpink/gifts).



> for the no white saviors exchange yay ! [pinkmistletoe](http://pinkmistletoe.tumblr.com) wanted "Monty Green + Nathan Miller + winter holiday season (can be shippy or just gen)" and I threw some of another prompt (wells jaha/bellamy blake + coffee shop AU + “i memorized your order and the staff knows i like you” ) into the background!!! i rly hope u like it<3
> 
> warnings for language (like.. plenty of language, it's miller pov so), mention of alcohol/drugs

 

Miller is going to die. Well—obviously he’s going to die someday. But like, he’s thinking his day might be _today_.

This random Thursday evening in December, he’s gonna bite it. The funeral will probably be sad and small, and Bellamy will try to be manly and not cry, but he’ll only make it to the end of his speech, and then the waterworks’ll come.

And okay, Miller. Jesus. A little morbid there, man.

Miller tells himself to snap out of it.

But like—seriously. Fuck. _Fuck_. He’s known Monty Green since they were both tiny. He’s seen tiny-Monty naked in a bathtub, and all sizes of Monty-s through the years in an array of knitted Christmas sweaters.

But this is the first time he’s seen Monty in a cozy-ass sweater since he’s realized he’s, like, head-over-McFucking heels for the guy. Like, he’s realized he wouldn’t object to seeing his best friend naked in a bathtub again. Ideally with Miller in the tub, too, thanks.

“Hey, man.” Bellamy lifts a lazy, distracted hand. He’s behind the coffee shop’s counter, a blue apron looped over his head. Bellamy’s the reason they come here; they’d convene somewhere cheaper, otherwise, but Bellamy landed the job and somehow dragged a pile of friends with him.

Miller realizes he’s still standing in the doorway. He gives Bellamy a nod hello, then heads for the small round table where Raven and Monty are seated. Monty’s wrapped in a huge, soft-looking, cream-colored sweater, his hands cupped around a heavy white mug and his dark eyes glittering above cold-pink cheeks. Cause of death: the love of my life in a fuzzy winter sweater. Miller takes a deep breath.

He pulls up a chair for himself. “Hey, Raven.” She nods at him, ponytail shushing against her jacket. “’Sup, Monty?”

Monty tips his mug back, taking a deep drink. “Not a lot,” he says. “I’ve been trying to convince Raven to spike the ‘nog at this party at my parents house, but she’s failing me.”

Raven rolls her eyes. “Everyone’s suspicious of him, so he’ll be watched too closely to do it himself.” She hits Monty’s shoulder. “You’re a sketchy little fuck, you know that, Green?”

“Hm,” Monty says, not disagreeably. He peers into his mug. “This little fuck is out of coffee. Raven, you need anything?” He stands.

Raven shakes her head and sips her own coffee.

Miller gets up from his chair, shedding his jacket. It’s aggressively cold outside, but the air in the shop is soft and toasty-warm. “I’ll come with,” Miller says. He gives Monty the smallest of smiles.

“Get me a doughnut or something, Nate,” Raven says, and props her foot on the chair he just vacated. “You owe me for last week.”

“Whatever.”

“Love you, too,” says Raven.

Monty and Miller leave her alone at the table with her phone for company, meeting Bellamy at the counter. Looking phenomenally bored, Bellamy is leaning on his elbows on the counter; he straightens when he sees them.

“What can I get you fellas?”

Monty makes a face. “You sound like a middle-aged professor who’s going gray and still says shit like “groovy.””

Bellamy scowls. “Okay, nothing for Monty. You, Nate?”

“Coffee. And, uhh … hang on, I’ve gotta pick a pastry for Raven.”

Here’s how the disaster happens:

Monty keeps being a shit and trying to rile Bellamy up. Miller picks out a slice of blueberry-lemon cake for Raven. He’s pulling out his wallet, preoccupied; Monty is distracted heckling Bellamy: the both of them fail to pay attention to the dainty green sprig of leaves dangling just to the side of the cash register. Raven points it out to them.

They hear a cackle, then a pleased shout of: “Mistletoe! Kiss the man, Monty!”

And then—then—then Monty’s wide eyes are blinking at him, and Monty tips his head just slightly to the side, like he’s curious. And then his hands are coming up—his fingers touch Miller’s neck and a shiver runs all the way down Miller’s spine. Monty’s fingers are cold. Miller likes the feeling.

Monty closes his eyes.

Then Monty kisses him.

Monty’s lips are dry. The cold of his fingertips feels hot on Miller’s neck. Sparks race around furiously just under his skin. Monty leans a little closer, opens his mouth; he tastes like coffee, smells like coffee.

“Here’s your coffee, man.” There’s a smile in Bellamy’s voice. Miller leans back from Monty.

“Uh,” says Miller.

“Thanks,” says Monty, and it takes Miller a second to realize he’s thanking Bellamy for an extended mug of coffee, not thanking Miller.

Fuck, Miller thinks. Fuck.

“Bring me my doughnut, lover-boy!”

Moving numbly, Miller takes his order from Bellamy and heads back to their table. What … just happened? What did he _do_?

They learn from Anya, who works with Bellamy and shows up twenty minutes later, that Bellamy is to blame for that particular moment of shit-fuck. She tells them, eyes sparkling with laughter, that he hung the mistletoe hoping a certain tall, wide-shouldered customer by the name of Wells would come in.

Bellamy denies everything, which makes it all the more obviously true.

Miller might be more pissed, but he’s kind of occupied going _fuck fuck fuck shit shit shit I don’t think I can look at Monty ever again fuck fuck fuck_ , so. Bellamy’s off the hook until Miller finishes his meltdown.

A hand touches his elbow. Miller jumps.

It’s Monty. He mouths, “ _You okay?_ ”

The conversation in the mostly-empty shop has devolved into Raven saying she knows Wells, which leads to Anya asking if she knows some guy named Lincoln, who, yes, Raven works out with sometimes, and so-on.

“I—yeah. Yeah, man,” Miller says. He forces a smile. “Just tired.” He grabs at his coat on the chair behind him. “Um, I’m—gonna head out, actually. Get some Z’s.”

He fucking bolts.

The air outside is fucking freezing, a slap of cold to his exposed cheeks. His eyes sting a little. He really should’ve finished his coffee before he high-tailed it out of there.

Coffee wasn’t worth staying longer. Sitting next to Monty longer. Sitting right next to him, knowing Monty deserves way fucking better than him, is never gonna want him like that, but now knowing exactly what it’s like to kiss him … Fuck.

“Miller!”

God, fuck. It’s Monty.

Miller clears his throat. His car’s still like a block away. He says, “Yeah?” but keeps walking.

Monty catches at his arm, pulling him to a stop. The street lamps show him Monty’s face, though the sky above them is black and pecked with only the tiniest of stars.

“You sure you’re okay?”

Miller shrugs Monty’s hand off his arm. “Fine. Yeah.”

“You don’t look okay.”

Miller works his jaw. “Dude, just drop it.”

Monty crosses his arms. “Did you not want me to kiss you?”

The words are as much of a slap to the face as the icy December breeze. “I—.” Miller sticks his hands in his coat pockets. “What?”

Monty’s face is hard. Miller can’t tell what he’s thinking.

“Did you not want me to kiss you?” Monty repeats. He narrows his eyes. “I thought maybe you were pissed. Anya said it was either you didn’t want me to kiss you, or you really _did_.”

Miller’s eyes widen.

Monty’s mirror his. “Oh, fuck.” Monty says.

Miller’s gonna be sick. He turns away. He’s planning to sprint to his fucking car.

“Oh, fuck. I had no idea. Miller, I really—hey, come back. Come back!”

Monty catches him by the arm again. Then his hand takes an adventure from Miller’s elbow to his upper arm, his shoulder—he grips Miller tightly.

He says, determinedly, “Can I?”

As soon as Miller understands what the heck is going on, he’s nodding, fast, hard, and then Monty’s kissing him again. Miller thinks he might burst out of his skin. Monty still tastes like coffee and he’s warm amidst the cold night and “fuck, wow, thank fuck,” is all Miller can think.

Monty breaks the kiss, but doesn’t go far. His hand stays on Miller’s shoulder; he plays with the collar of Miller’s coat. (Miller’s hands are at the small of Monty’s back, and he doesn’t remember putting them there, but like. Cool. Okay. He’s cool with this.)

“Anya is wise,” Monty says solemnly.

Miller cracks a grin, the kind that Monty is so good at pulling out of him. “That she is.”

Miller strokes Monty’s back lightly with his thumb, his heart pounding wildly in his chest. “D’you think we have to send Bellamy a thank-you card?” he asks.

Monty snorts. “No way. It’d just go to his head." He leans in to kiss Miller again.

Miller thinks maybe he'll buy Bellamy a blueberry-lemon thank-you cake.

 


End file.
